


In Spite

by ignited



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-07
Updated: 2006-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't always uncomfortable. It works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Spite

**Author's Note:**

> I never write the 'taboo' pairing so I wanted to give it a try. A selection within this story is reposted from a P/G prompt [](http://starstillwonder.livejournal.com/profile)[**starstillwonder**](http://starstillwonder.livejournal.com/) gave me ages ago which also influenced this. Apologies for any mistakes; my fault entirely. Title's from the only [McCartney-Harrison composition](http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/the_beatles/in_spite_of_all_the_danger.html).

The third time, it's uncomfortable and disgusting: George coughs smoke and Paul smells like the ocean, natural and fake, sand and chlorine. They knock limbs, hips, knuckles more than their lips meet, and Paul says "sorry" one too many times, to which, after the fifth time, George responds, "Right you are."

The third time is in Miami, which is far more tropical than the first two times: Conventry Theatre in Conventry, the day before George's twentieth birthday a year before, and the Hippodrome Theatre in Birmingham the same year (two days later Paul caught the flu and gave George dirty looks for a week after, saying he caught something off him, and if he did, well, such things happen in the midst of a session in the toilet).

In usual disorganized fashion, the third time is in Miami when they should rightfully be practicing for Ed Sullivan or, in Paul's case, taking a bath. John's out with Cynthia, Ringo's out with Neil and Mal and George coughs for the third time in Paul's face.

"You're a regular old Casanova, aren't you?" says Paul, breathes it up George's neck, words dissolving in a groan when George begins to pull down his shorts.

George grunts. "At least I don't need a bath."

"But-" And this is where Paul pulls at George's shirt, yanks the collar right _down_ , lips against collarbone, neck, jawline. "You need a shave."

Then George mentions something or other about "the lube" and they bump into the closet door rather harshly. They curse, they fuck, and they fumble when there's laughter down the hall.

 

\--

 

Paul and George don't get on well.

They do, you see, but not well - it's not the same. Everyone gets on with Ringo, caring and funny that he is, and John's difficult but he's got his wit and his acid (tongue and slips of acid and pot on weekends). Paul doesn't write songs with John anymore, and George considers himself closest to John, especially after the dentist incident.

Paul and George are friends enough, and they don't get on well, and such things happen when you're older and younger, 16 and nearly 16, still 15 (they met on the bus to school; Paul was taller and looked down). Paul is nine months older than George and acts it every day, the way he gestures and speaks, long lashes, delicate nose, haughty, perfectionist tosser.

George doesn't necessarily think _that_ all the time but Paul's just turned down a suggestion for a guitar solo on his _'Hey Jude'_ and it's pissing George off.

As a result, he sulks in the control room for a good portion of the session, listening to Paul's commands, John's retorts, and all the other noises going on in the madhouse.

 

\--

 

There's a woman who works in the club they're in, Rosa, and she gives Paul use of a flat down by the docks. He leapt at the chance to get away from the bare, windowless walls, flickering bulb of a light and the public toilets they'd dealt with for ages. Paul left, took his guitar and things, and sang to sailors nearby.

George ambles over to Paul's flat in the afternoon, comes by with notice of a schedule change, or John's off missing in some gutter or stripper's house, he hasn't decided. Quiffed back haido's a mess, greasy strands get in his eyes from the wind, and there's a hole in his pocket. Any complaints he voices are lost on the winds as he reaches Paul's door.

There isn't an answer when he knocks but he hears Paul's voice, thin, lonely, the soft noise of guitar strings. He moves towards the sound and sees him sitting on the dock nearby, hunched over, collar up, protecting himself from the cold.

"Hi," George murmurs. Paul jerks, startled, relaxes at the voice and company. George kicks up a bit of paper, junk on the dock. "What's that you're playing?"

"I don't know yet. Can't use it anyways as it's too slow." Paul begins to tune his guitar. "What're you doing out here, George?"

"Couldn't sleep."

It's almost a lie - George couldn't, it's two 'o clock, and usually they wake at three in the afternoons. But he's been up since noon, visiting Astrid as he was in dire need of a bath. After having that and a small breakfast, he wandered about and so here he is now, freezing.

George walks over and sits on the dock near Paul. For the next half hour he listens to Paul play an instrumental followed by a few old musical and jazzy numbers. Eventually they both complain and laugh at their mutual dislike of the cold before they head off to the club for a long night of work ahead.

 

\--

 

The seventh time is in Apple studios, in January, more than a year since the last incident and the last for the next five years. The seventh has George and Paul in the toilets, making eye contact ( _kiss,taste,touch_ contact) because everything's going along swimmingly. George's brought Billy Preston in to play, John's actually talking for once, not using Yoko as his mouthpiece and Paul unfortunately hasn't shaved for ages but other than that, _swimmingly_.

It's become habit to cover up their thing, whatever it's called, with excuses. It's like acid and pot before it - you keep things covered, you use the linings of your suitcase and you get Mal or Neil to carry it for you. Keep quiet, don't tell, otherwise Sergeant Pilcher and his merry gang of idiots sent by God save the bloody Queen will come and take your MBE. So you hide and attribute excuses to your bachelor - in George's case, student on a spiritual path - lifestyle.

It isn't Cavendish Avenue - Linda, Heather. They're there.

Paul grunts twice, slips cold hands under George's shirt, trails fingers down, down ( _in_ , thrusts _in_ ) and George cries out, hips buck, pulls back at Paul's arm, neck, hair over his collar. They both crash into a stall door and Paul knocks his hip against a dirty sink. They will fall to the floor afterwards, Paul lending a hand to George - who hesitates, accepts - and they rise to their feet. George waves a hand through the air, displacing the smoke still lingering from a burnt out joint.

"You need help on the overdubs later?" Paul asks, putting back on his vest, fixing his clothes. The voice seems to harshly echo within the room, first words spoken after ten minutes. He scratches his beard before stretching, watching George zip up his jeans.

"Might. I'd get John only I think he's busy." George shrugs, glances at their surroundings. The toilets here are crap, he decides, looking at the leaky faucets. And it doesn't help that they're going around fucking and smoking in them.

"Right." Paul taps his nose, grins, before he holds the door open for George.

George hates it when he does that.

 

\--

 

You can still hear the roar of the crowd, if you listen carefully, and if you ignore the sounds of giggling, a fake accent, and sex coming from John's bedroom. Paul does, he listens carefully, chooses to listen to _that_ rather than George grunting or saying 'no' - he doesn't, thankfully, he wants it just as bad - and he pushes George up against the doorframe without so much as a 'could you, please?'

 

\--

 

George stays quiet throughout, let Paul kiss up and up his neck, twist fingers in his hair and the other hand goes on his cock, and he'll _let_ it, if only to grunt at the doorknob pressing into the back of his thigh. He'll push back Paul just enough, so that they move a little and so that George's back slides right down the door surface, pulling his shirt up and crooked as he goes down.

 

\--

 

Paul is a mess at this and George's just fucking horny and soon they're _at_ it, clumsy but getting the job done. They can hear the crowd still, can't they, and that moves it all along.

 

\--

 

There's also an incident in 1974 except George is drunk for a good part of it.

 

\--

 

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Paul tends to go on over things in his manner, always eager and willing to please. He waves his arms widely, threatens to topple over the boat railing before he regains his balance. George raises his camera, nodding at Paul to keep still before he snaps. They've never seen this type of scenery before nor known weather this humid, and they might never see it again. You never know with a pop group.

George takes another picture of Paul, muttering in agreement. Paul's compliment is right; Miami _is_ truly beautiful.

They rest against the railing of the boat, looking at the water below and listening to the conversations behind them.

George is at a loss at what to say to him; he doesn't have that uneasiness with Ringo or John. As much as John talks, he's just as uncomfortable at times, but _understanding_. The two of them can have quiet. However, George isn't used to quiet with Paul around.

He opens his mouth to speak but Paul says, "I think we'll come back to America when we're done." Paul pauses, a glance at outstretched fingers. "I mean, touring and such like this year. Don't you?"

George shrugs. "I don't know."

Paul leaves it at that and George notes Paul's hesitancy.

These are habits, and they will never go away.

 

\--

 

It isn't always uncomfortable. It works.

Somehow.

END


End file.
